


Haha then what

by Zarla



Series: Vargas Stories [15]
Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Frottage, Jealousy, M/M, Original Character(s), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessiveness, Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zarla/pseuds/Zarla
Summary: Scriabin goes out at all hours of the night, doesn't tell him where he's going, doesn't tell him what he's doing, who knows what could happen out there! It worries Edgar sick.It's almost like he's doing it on purpose.
Relationships: Edgar/Scriabin
Series: Vargas Stories [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/20964
Comments: 22
Kudos: 74





	Haha then what

**Author's Note:**

> I finally come back to this 'verse after all these years and it's to post a PWP lol. How appropriate.
> 
> Set after Chapter 29 of [Vargas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/49492).

He knew Scriabin was irresponsible, but he didn't know he'd be THIS irresponsible.

Edgar sat on his couch, a book on his lap that his eyes kept rebounding off of, the letters refusing to settle into any actual words. He kept looking instead at the VCR clock, tracking every minute that passed by with growing disbelief and, frustratingly enough, more anger than he really wanted to have.

Todd, at least, was having a sleepover at a friend's house, so he wouldn't be around for whatever was going to happen. Edgar wasn't entirely sure what that was going to be, but he was almost positive it wasn't going to be anything a child needed to watch.

He was _not_ happy with Scriabin right now.

He waited, waited, waited and finally he heard the keys. He glanced again at the time, aghast, unbelieving, and turned to see Scriabin coming in the door. His hair had grown out now, his movements were smoother and more natural - he was much like he was Before and yet, still a different person at the same time. At least his long hair hid the parts of his face that didn't quite _match_. He was smiling, humming idly, as he tossed his keys on the side table and fluffed his hair out of his coat.

"Do you know what time it is?" Edgar did _not_ shout, but he came awfully close. Scriabin had replaced the sunglasses with a proper pair of reflective glasses at the first opportunity, which at the time had been a relief but now was just familiarly frustrating. All Edgar could see was himself in those lenses, but he could see Scriabin's eyebrows raise above them.

"What are you still doing up?" he said, unperturbed. "You're usually asleep by now."

"Where have you _been_?" Edgar got up, tossing the book back onto the couch, and Scriabin just ignored him as he went into the kitchen. "You didn't even leave a note- what have you been doing all night?"

"Oh, you know." Scriabin looked for something in the fridge. "Socializing. Going to parties. Making friends. Things you don't do. The night is for lovers, you know." Scriabin leaned back with a soda can in his hand, and he tilted it to Edgar in a sort of toast. He had the most infuriating look on his face imaginable. "Well, I guess you wouldn't."

"You can't just _do_ that, you can't just run off all night and not tell me where you're going. I have work tomorrow, I-"

"You don't need _me_ to go to sleep. You never have, my boy." Scriabin leaned back against the kitchen counter as he popped the tab, still giving him an unbearably smug look. "Don't tell me you can't sleep without me." He tapped a finger to his chin in exaggerated thought. "Is that pathetic, or romantic?"

Edgar threw his hands up. "Fine! You're right, I shouldn't even care about this, it's not my problem. What you do isn't my problem. I can't believe I wasted all this time-" He pinched the bridge of his nose with a tight breath. "Of all the things to do just to make me upset..."

"You think it was about _you_?" Scriabin's smile faded for a moment into a frown, then he shrugged with familiar disdain. "Of course, it's always about _you_. Everything I do is about _you_ , how could I forget?" He took a drink. "Me having fun is about making _you_ upset. That makes sense."

"Ugh." Edgar shook his head, his eyes shut tightly as he tried to fight back a headache. "Why do I even bother?"

"Frankly, you're lucky I even came home at all tonight. I didn't have to."

It took a few seconds for it to sink in, and it came with a sudden, unexpected chill. He took his hand away to look at Scriabin, who was taking a long drink that incidentally also hid his face.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Scriabin finished his pull, tilted his head at Edgar in that familiar regarding way, and he could just imagine the wheels turning.

"Oh, just one of my many admirers," Scriabin said eventually with a smile, toying with the tab of his soda with one hand. "I have flocks of them you know. They're inescapably drawn to me. Did I not tell you that? Some of them are more desperate than others..." 

Edgar was shaking, and he wasn't sure why.

Scriabin watched him with that studying look, that same smile. "He was _very_ insistent about taking me home. I'm sure he's still waiting, actually... if you're so upset about me being here, then maybe I'll do you a favor and go."

Scriabin turned slightly to set his soda down, all of his movements very deliberate, and Edgar's hand hit the counter by Scriabin's hip to block his path to the door. It happened before his brain could have any input on it.

Scriabin raised his eyebrows at him again, and Edgar was still shaking.

"You mean to tell me that you've been..."

"Flirting? Romancing? Fucking? I told you, the night is for lovers, isn't it?" Scriabin kept smiling with that same uncalled-for grace, even though those mirror lenses stayed perfectly still, fixed on Edgar's face. "I've been doing a lot of things you'd never do. Isn't that who I am? Do you want to know his name?" Scriabin leaned just a little closer towards him, his voice lowering. "I haven't told him _any_ thing about you. I don't _have_ to anymore."

A number of responses sparked in his brain that didn't make any sense, that collided too abruptly for any of them to make it out of his mouth. Among them was _yes you do_ and _no you can't_ and he didn't like either of those at _all_.

"But you know... it's really none of your business, as you said." Scriabin spoke slowly without taking his eyes off him, all of his movements carefully measured. He leaned back away from Edgar, waiting, but Edgar didn't move. "We're not the same person anymore. I don't have to follow you, and you don't have to follow me. I don't need _your_ approval if I want to go fuck someone." His smile quirked as Edgar twitched at the word. "I can't imagine why you would care about such a thing."

"I don't," Edgar said, automatically. Something in him was slipping out of his control, something was rising and he didn't know what it was, he didn't want it to be there. Scriabin just gave him that same knowing look.

"It's none of your business," he said, falsely pleasant, a trap clearly laid and waiting. "Is it? So I'm glad we're in agreement. Now, if you'll excuse me..."

Scriabin pushed Edgar's arm out of the way, and Edgar let him do so, still struggling to process whatever it was that was twisting around inside of him. A snake-like pit of _some_ thing that he couldn't get too close to. Scriabin, meanwhile, was taking his sweet time in heading for the door.

"See you... whenever. Who knows when I'll be home." Scriabin waved a hand at him as he so often did, and Edgar moved again before he knew he was doing it. His hand thudded against the wall in front of Scriabin's face, and for a moment, a briefly satisfying moment, he saw Scriabin jump. It didn't last, but it had happened.

"Mm? Do you want something?" Scriabin raised his eyebrows at him again, still smirking in that hateful way. "Do you _want_ something?"

Edgar both did and didn't want to say something, whatever it was that wanted to come out wouldn't let itself be grasped, and whatever self-control or respect or something like that wouldn't let it free. 

Scriabin watched him struggle, he must have been able to see it in his face, and he raised a hand to push one fingertip into Edgar's chest.

"You know, I didn't think you had it in you to be jealous." He hated the smoothness in his voice. "Especially over..." And it caught, for a second, and he could see him hesitate, think, before he picked it up again. "Especially over me, of all people. I thought you hated me. We do hate each other, don't we?"

"I'm not going to let you go out there and get hurt," Edgar said, somehow, from somewhere, he had no idea where. He couldn't trace the thought back to any logical place, which didn't help that snake pit any at all.

"Oh, aren't you noble? Very touching. If I want to go out and get hurt, I'll do it, and there's nothing you can do about it." Scriabin leaned his face in closer to Edgar's, just so slightly shorter than him. Edgar wasn't sure when he started feeling so warm. "You can't stop me. You can't protect me." He pressed his finger into his chest harder, so he could feel it. "Of course you want me when you can't _have_ me."

It was anger, he realized, but it wasn't any kind of anger he knew. Scriabin had driven him to it many times and in many places, shown him so many different flavors of rage that he thought he knew them all, but this was different. He didn't know what this was, but it burned in his chest suddenly and his other hand hit the wall to trap Scriabin between them.

"You're not going out there," something in him said, something he didn't recognize.

Scriabin glanced at both his arms, looked up at him, and a different kind of smile came to him now. The kind that came with a realization, one that usually meant pain for him but at the moment that thought didn't register, the fear didn't come.

"Mm hmm hmm." That condescending laugh that he hated so much. "Now this is interesting. Was it really this simple the whole time? It never even occurred to me to try it. Although, I suppose it wasn't really possible, Before. I didn't have any other options, none that you'd believe."

"Scriabin..."

"Were you scared for me, Edgar?" Scriabin said, speaking softly but very deliberately, touching his words with a strange weight that somehow stoked that foreign anger further. He touched his fingers to his own chest, tilting his head. "Were you sitting there all night, imagining the worst things happening to me? I would have thought you'd enjoy that."

"Why would I- how could I not worry?" Edgar struggled to find something coherent, something logical, something he knew instead of whatever it was he was feeling now. It wasn't his, it didn't feel like it was his, there was a tinge of something to it that meant it wasn't entirely unfamiliar, and he thought that maybe this was Scriabin's, and he'd just left it behind when they'd been separated. "You don't tell me where you go, you don't tell me what you're doing, you don't tell me who you're with..."

"Why is that any of your business?" His smile didn't change, as though he was constantly in on some private joke that he knew Edgar wouldn't understand. Edgar curled one hand into a fist and thumped it against the wall, and again, the slight jump Scriabin made was satisfying, somewhere.

"Because we're..." And he couldn't find a word to finish that sentence. He never could. He wasn't sure one even existed.

"What are you going to do, Edgar?" Scriabin clearly taunting him now, tension along his shoulders in spite of how easily words came. "What are you going to do if I go out anyway?"

"You're not going to."

"Why's that?"

"I..."

"Are you going to _make_ me stay?" Scriabin said, quiet and deliberate, still smiling at him in clear and obvious challenge. He waited, to give the words as much weight as he could. "I'd like to see you try."

"Scriabin..." He meant it in any way other than how it came out, which was warning. Where did that come from? Where was any of this coming from? He was still shaking with that strange anger, all the _heat_ from nowhere. He was so frustrated with him and he usually knew why, and now...

"Go ahead." Scriabin took a breath, unmoved, smile still fixed. "I'd like to see you try."

He pushed at Edgar's arm. Something in him snapped.

It happened quickly, too quickly for either of them to think about, in moments it was finished. Scriabin thudded back against the wall with a soft "unh", his wrists pinned back in Edgar's hands, and the two of them were breathing hard, inches away from each other.

"Should I tell you what I did tonight?" Scriabin said, still smug. Edgar could feel his heart hammering in his grip, his breath quick on his face. "Since you're _so_ interested."

"Scriabin, I'm not-" He wasn't sure how he was going to finish that thought, but Scriabin interrupted him and saved him the trouble.

"I went out to a bar, by myself," Scriabin said, in some kind of gloating tone that was entirely inappropriate, and his face was warm and his heart still pounded. He didn't take his eyes off of him, and Edgar could see himself in those lenses and he didn't recognize himself, he didn't know that expression he was making. "I wasn't paying _any_ attention. He bought me a drink, and I took it without even asking about it." He took in a deep breath, his next words a fierce kind of whisper. "He had a knife, I could tell."

He was furious, furious and he didn't know why, and he yanked Scriabin away from the wall for a reason he couldn't pin down.

"Stop it, stop saying-"

"He said he could make me pay for having such a smart mouth-"

"Shut up! Shut up-"

He wasn't sure where he was trying to take him, or what he was doing with him, he was just doing _some_ thing, and Scriabin was fighting against him and so he fought back without thinking. Scriabin tried to twist his hands free from him but he wouldn't let him go, he was _not_ going to let him go, and the two of them stumbled away from the wall in a mix of clumsy movement and harsh breath. Scriabin pulled, he grunted with effort, and then Scriabin's back hit the back of the couch. 

With that much momentum, he couldn't recover his balance, and Edgar wasn't going to let him go, and the two of them fell over onto it in an awkward tangle of limbs. Scriabin kicked underneath him, tried to break free, and the two of them slid further off the couch onto the floor with another set of huffs and thuds.

The jolt was enough to break Edgar's focus for those few seconds, point out the new chafes on his elbows and how _ridiculous_ this all was, what was he even _doing?_ , and still that strange emotion flooded through him. Scriabin was under him, breathing hard and he could see some kind of tension running through his features. Pain? Surprise? For all the familiarity and ease Scriabin claimed he had with his new body, sensation for him was still far more intense than it'd be for any normal person. 

That was why he worried so much when...

Scriabin stretched somewhat under him, testing the weight that pinned him down, twisted his back against the carpet a little like he was luxuriating in the feel of it, even through his clothes. 

"I didn't know you had it in you," he said, eventually. "Look at you."

Edgar let go of his wrists like what he'd said was some kind of admonishment, used them instead to prop himself over him a little to get some space. He could feel heat building between them, and something in him still burning, unsatisfied and waiting.

"You can't..." He took a breath. "You can't say things like that, you can't say that to me..."

"I can say whatever I like to you." Scriabin's face grew warmer as he spoke, his breathing quicker. "Can you imagine, Edgar, someone taking me outside the bar, someone pressing a knife to my ribs-"

"Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop saying things like that-" He clenched his teeth, he was shivering with fear he could recognize but still so much of that strange _anger_.

"Can you imagine what they could have forced me to do, if they wanted? And how you'd just be here, sitting with your book, completely helpless to do anything about it? Completely unaware it was even happening? Completely unable to prot-"

He couldn't hear any more of this, he couldn't handle this, he couldn't bear any more of this anger that clouded his vision and thoughts. He wasn't even sure all of it was directed at Scriabin, or even himself, and that just made it more frustrating somehow. He pressed his mouth to Scriabin's and that, at least, would make him quiet. He could feel him shiver under it, felt it go through the length of his body under him, the faint sound he made into his mouth. 

For all that he'd boasted, he seemed just as unfamiliar with this as Edgar was. He didn't push, he didn't bite, he didn't move away. It was strangely slow and explorative, it lasted longer than he wanted it to somehow, and they pulled away just enough to breathe. They were both trembling, and he heard the edges of their glasses click together.

"You can't do that," Edgar said eventually. "You can't do that to me."

"You're the one who kissed me," Scriabin said, softly. He expected more strength to it than he heard.

"That's not what I meant." He shifted one of his arms so he could run a hand through Scriabin's hair to take a firm handful of it. "You can't say things like that. You can't _do_ things like that."

"I can do whatever I want," Scriabin said in that same soft, breathless voice. "I can put myself in as much danger as I want, and you can't stop me."

"No, you can't." That anger was burning again, it was so powerful and he'd never seen it before, felt it before, he didn't know what it was and he couldn't fight it. "I won't let you."

Scriabin shivered at those words, twisted a little under him and he wasn't sure why. It took him a moment to find the composure for words. "Nn, and why not? Why not? What does it matter to you...?"

He was so _angry_ and he'd never been this angry in this way before. He didn't even think himself capable of it, and he didn't know what to do with it either. He wanted to do _some_ thing but he wasn't sure what it was. He could feel his teeth clenching, some kind of growl in the back of his throat, the image Scriabin had so expertly placed in his head of him being taken advantage of, being hurt, being _hurt_ -

"I'm _not_ going to let you," Edgar said in that low voice, and Scriabin leaned his head back, his hair going taut in his grip.

"What are you going to do to stop me?" Just at the edge of words.

He couldn't get it out of his mouth, he couldn't force it through whatever barriers he still had, he couldn't get it to settle or be reasonable or anything like that. Quick, jumbled thoughts that kept meshing and mixing. 

"I'm not going to let you get hurt." Edgar was struck by the sudden urge to bite him, which did not make _sense_ , he didn't _do_ things like that, and he fought it back, forced it _down_ and forced himself to let go of his hair. Scriabin let out a breath as the pressure eased on him, and Edgar felt a twinge of regret, guilt, something familiar that still paled in the face of whatever had hold of him now. "I'm not going to let you hurt yourself."

"Why not...?"

"I care too much to let you do that." Which was close to what that anger wanted from him, what that anger was screaming and shouting at him, but still wasn't it. Something was still missing, something he still couldn't touch, snakes still hissing at his hand. He expected Scriabin to brush the words off as usual, shove Edgar's attempts at closeness away because that was all he ever did.

Instead, he felt Scriabin press his body closer to him, his hands shaking where they rested on his arms. He turned his head to one side and around the edges of his glasses, Edgar could see that his eyes were closed.

"Is that so...?" Scriabin breathed, and it wasn't in the way he would have expected, that said _I don't believe you_. He could hear clearly, feel it in how he moved, that he was saying, all of him was saying, _make me believe you_.

That was a challenge that that strange anger rose up readily to face, eager for it even. Edgar slid a hand along Scriabin's side, underneath the edge of his shirt as their lips met again, and there wasn't any of the anger that he would have expected from him for doing this, any of the fierceness or strength that he knew.

When he heard, felt the soft sounds Scriabin was making into his mouth, he realized that it was because that forcefulness was coming from him.

They broke apart just a little, and Scriabin was panting for breath, his face was burning, and he could feel him shivering with each touch of his fingers, how it echoed through his body. His heart was pounding underneath his hand, he could almost feel it in the heat he was giving off.

"You're going to stay here, with me." It came from the back of his throat, and when he heard Scriabin take a breath in to protest, he cut him off with another kiss. His body rose against him, he made that faint sound that Edgar was realizing he was enjoying a little too much. He kissed him harder this time, felt him giving in, and thought, reminded himself, that sensations for Scriabin now were a lot more intense than they were for a normal person. He couldn't imagine what this would have felt like for him, but the faint whine he was making gave him some kind of idea.

To think that he'd go out there, that he'd give someone else the ability to hurt him so easily, so carelessly-

That he'd give himself to someone else so carelessly-

That he'd give himself to _someone else_ -

All this nameless anger, all this _energy_ , all this directionless _feeling_ , and he shifted against him, scratched at Scriabin's skin under his shirt clumsily and was rewarded with a deep gasp, almost startled, somewhat wondrous. He could catch faint words in harsh breaths, something like "oh fuck", some kind of encouragement that had him try to get Scriabin to hook his leg around his, to press the two of them against each other. His intent was clear, and while Scriabin was clumsy, it didn't take too long for them to interlock.

"Ngh," Scriabin shuddered as they moved, at the slightest touch to it even through their clothes, trying to bite it back. "Fuck..."

"You..." He couldn't grasp it, even now as it flowed through him, as it powered him through movements he couldn't think through. He was close to it but he still couldn't catch it, still couldn't let those last strands of self-control fall apart.

He rolled his hips, and Scriabin's fingers dug hard into his arms as he gasped, his head thrown back.

" _God_ \- ah-"

He could see his throat moving, how quickly he was breathing, could imagine his heart pounding through it, and then he was there, tracing his mouth along the side of it before he even thought of it. He could feel the noises Scriabin was making now as well as hear them, sounds he never thought he'd hear, that were _doing_ something to him. His pulse was right there, so rapid and hard, blood flowing and there was something satisfying about that on some level he still couldn't understand.

Scriabin's breathing under him was colored now with clear desperation, desire for movement, and a kind of trembling unsteadiness that made that anger rise up in him even stronger. Scriabin didn't know what he was doing, he didn't know what he was talking about, he knowingly played with fire without even knowing how he could get burned, he had the nerve to come and taunt Edgar with something like that when he could see, could feel right now, that this was too much for him. 

He was so _frustrating_ , and Edgar found he'd set rhythmic movement against Scriabin, and that it was driving him to pieces below him. He could barely muster up the ability to try and move against Edgar in return, but with how close they were he didn't have to move much at all.

Scriabin clawed at his shoulders, his back, and still, as always, making noise. 

"Hnnh, _je_ sus," through loud gasps, he could feel them going through Scriabin's throat under his mouth. He bit him suddenly, he didn't know why, he didn't have a _reason_ and Scriabin's whole body went rigid for those few seconds with a strange shaky sound. " _Fuck_ , ah..."

"You're my..." Edgar was so close to it, he was so close to it, and still, he couldn't find the word, he couldn't pin it down, he couldn't find the ending of it. That thing in him raged, demanded what he didn't want to give, it wasn't satisfied, it wouldn't be satisfied until he knew he'd undone him completely, until he'd shown him, until he'd made sure he _understood_...

One of Scriabin's hands was tight in his hair, the other still clutching onto him, he could feel him shaking, hear it in his voice, how his body was tensing and pressing so close to his, even this soon, even with so much between them blocking sensation and he thought he could handle this? He thought he could handle this from some _stranger_ , who didn't even _know_ him? _No_ one knew him like Edgar did, no one ever _would_ -

"Ha-aa-aaah, Edgar-"

"You're _my_..." There, that was it, that was as close to it as he could get, the coals and accelerant that drove him forward, that kept him moving even as Scriabin tensed at those words, dug his nails into him until he was sure it bled, pulled in tight to himself but there wasn't anywhere he could go.

That dark, angry thing pushed him to bite his throat again, leave some kind of mark, and Scriabin made a strange, shaking noise as his entire body shuddered in powerful release. The thought of it, imagining how it might have felt had this happened Before, pushed him likewise over the edge not too long after.

That anger faded with the onset of that sudden pleasure, and in its wake he tried to find coherent thought again. Scriabin's arms were still limply around him, but he was lying flat on the carpet beneath him, panting desperately for breath, his hair sticking to his face and glasses askew. He could definitely see the faint red imprint of his teeth on him, which caused a twinge in his stomach that wasn't entirely pleasure. Coherency was bringing higher functions, and that included guilt and its best friend shame. He just did that and didn't even ask...

For a long time the two of them just tried to catch their breath, and Edgar was sure that coming down from it was probably going to be harder for Scriabin than for him. For all his posturing, all of this was still, _had_ to be new to him. When he found the energy, he managed to pull back and sit up, somewhat, and Scriabin's arms fell away from him as he did. 

He wanted to ask how on earth that had just happened, but he knew.

He wanted to ask _why_ that had just happened, but he knew that too, and he felt terrible.

"Scriabin...?" he ventured, after the silence had gone on too long. He felt like he'd walked out of the room for fifteen minutes and only now just come back to his body. He was absolutely sure he'd done something wrong, and that he was going to pay for it.

Scriabin was still trying to breathe, and finally, with a clumsy movement of his hand, touched his face where it still burned red. And then he laughed, a little senselessly.

At least he wasn't angry, but Edgar still felt like something was going to go wrong.

"Shit," Scriabin said, sounding as blissful and satisfied as he could while still struggling for breath. "If that's going to happen every time, I'm going to have to do that more often."

"Scriabin..." Edgar frowned, familiar irritation easing a bit of the uneasy wrongness he felt. Of course he'd find a way to be annoying, even now.

"Yours, huh?" 

And at that, Edgar jumped, flushed deeply and looked somewhere else across the room.

"I... I don't know what came over me, it just... I didn't mean it." Edgar held up his hands to shield himself. "I didn't mean it, I promise. Don't be mad."

Scriabin was pushing himself up to sitting as well, although it was clumsy and shaky. His arms were trembling uncontrollably, and it was hard for him to hold himself up. Edgar was taken with the urge to help him, but caution held him back. He still wasn't sure where he stood right now, and he was sure he'd done something wrong.

"I really didn't think you had it in you. I suppose I must have gotten it from somewhere." He ran a hand through his long hair, his words still a bit breathy. "Apparently you just need the right motivation. That's easy enough, at least."

Edgar wanted to say this wasn't going to happen again, but he knew, deep down, that he couldn't promise that. He didn't know enough to be sure, and Scriabin had a tendency to surprise him. He kept his hands up to protect himself, but he couldn't help the disapproval that worked its way into his voice.

"You're not really going to..."

"What, go out again tomorrow? Find my rebuffed paramour from tonight, so we can finish what we started?" Scriabin smirked at him, his hair falling over his face, and he reached out with one shaking hand. Edgar almost shied away in fear, his heart jumping, but Scriabin only took hold of his chin to draw him closer, slowly.

"Edgar..." Scriabin breathed, taking time with each word, as Edgar closed his eyes. "You are so... so... gullible."

Their lips met, and for a few moments that kept him from thinking about what Scriabin had just said. Then he stiffened and tried to pull away.

"Wait, you were just- how much were you- oh my God, I can't believe-" And that look on Scriabin's face just made him angrier.

" _So_ gullible."

Edgar shoved Scriabin away from him, stumbled to his feet, braced himself on the couch as his legs shook and Scriabin laughed at him from the floor. This kind of anger he knew very well, this he understood. His face had burned with it more than once. 

That feeling of _relief_ under it, that was new. 

He stalked off to change his clothes while Scriabin kept laughing, distant and satisfied, and he resolved not to think about any of this anymore.


End file.
